It Was Evening All Afternoon

The air felt like sullen grief and the earthideal for grave digging. No birds whistledor chattered in the autumn fields grown brownand slimy under sunless skies. No, no songcheered from heaven’s gate. We hid downstairsto stream invisibly into our flat screensome inane violence our entertainmentauthorities had prepared for us. Alas,we couldn’t escape a dank dread that the worldwas weeping inconsolably, and allwe could think to say was sorry for your loss.

Or, absent-mindedly, have a nice day.

The birds not only stayed silent, but failedto flit in and out of our cedar tree,so we couldn’t count them in admirationof life’s daily differences. Instead, we staredat a cluster of crinkled leaves, frozenwordlessly that some gray and brutal thingwas coming. Or that nothing ever meantto come at all, despite the constant promisesof leading experts. O that night would fallto just be finally night all night long.​